So I sit on the floor of the cage at dawn. The lock clicks. Imaginary. The sun rises. Real. And I wonder: What if the monster wasn’t the one who broke free? What if the monster was the one who stayed inside— and called it love?
And here is the deep cut: the nightmares are kind because they never lie. They do not promise safety. They promise truth . That you could bite. That you could run. That the door was never locked— you just liked the sound of the key turning in your imagination. instinct unleashed kind nightmares
I dream I am running. No—I dream I am chasing . And the thing I chase turns out to be my own spine, unspooling like a tape measure across a dark field. “You measured this wrong,” I say to no one. “You always do.” So I sit on the floor of the cage at dawn
These are the kind nightmares. The ones that tuck you in before they drown you. The ones that smile with your mother’s mouth and say, “You’ve always wanted to know what happens next.” The sun rises
Unleashed instinct is not violence. Violence is a language. This is the silence before the first word. This is the wolf remembering it never needed the pack— only the dark, only the rabbit’s last heartbeat, only the mercy of not having to choose.